by Maddy Hunter
“You’re looking awful pale this morning,” Lucille Rassmuson said to me. “Have you had a blood count taken lately? You look anemic. Or it could be leukemia. People your age get leukemia all the time.”
Now there was a pleasant thought. The good news was, the day could only get better from here. I flashed a smile at Lucille. “I’m sporting the anemic look this morning because all my makeup is in my suitcase, which, let me repeat, has been misplaced.”
“We’ll be running a special on makeup around Christmas,” Jane Hanson volunteered helpfully. “We’re going to call it ‘Jingle Bells Days.’ Buy one product, get a second product half price. And we’ll also be giving away midget lipsticks. Midgets make nice stocking stuffers.”
“If I looked as bad as you do without makeup, I’d see a plastic surgeon,” Lucille said to me. “They do a procedure now where they tattoo pink pigment onto your cheeks to give you a permanent rosy glow. They’ve been known to screw up though. One woman ended up with two red rectangles on her face. And she couldn’t even tone them down with foundation. Disfigured her permanently.”
Yup. I was going to rush right out and do that.
“I always pack extra makeup,” said Shirley. “Why don’t I pick out some things that’ll match your color palette and give them to you after breakfast. I owe you that much after what you did for me the other morning.”
“What did she do for you?” Helen asked.
“Emily was so sweet. After I found Andy’s body, all I could do was stand there screaming hysterically in the hallway. So she calmed me down and took me to her room. And there it was only four o’clock in the morning.”
Dick Rassmuson squinted across the table at Shirley. “How’d you happen to find Andy’s body at four in the morning?”
“He invited me to his room. And it’s a good thing, too, because he might have been rotting there a long time if I hadn’t come by when I did.”
A knowing look made its way around the table. “You gotta give the little guy credit.” Dick Teig laughed. “He knew how to lure a woman into the sack.” He toasted the chair Andy had occupied that first night at dinner, then set his coffee cup down. “Did you bring my pills, Helen?”
Helen reached into her Triangle Tour bag and placed a small plastic container on the table. It was blue and divided into compartments that were labeled with the first letter of each day of the week.
“Is that the seven-day pill caddy?” asked Lucille. “Those weekly models are so obsolete.” She reached down beside her and pulled out a larger plastic container with even more compartments. “This is the deluxe model. It holds two weeks’ worth of medications and the lids are easy opening, in case you’re suffering from arthritis. They also give you the first three letters for each weekday, in case you have predementia and can’t remember if the T stands for Tuesday or Thursday or the S for Saturday or Sunday. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help much if you’re dyslexic.”
Helen lifted her green eyebrows and smiled smugly. She reached into her bag again and held up a container that was larger yet. “This is the super deluxe model. It holds a month’s supply of medications, has easy opening lids, spells out the entire day on each compartment, glows in the dark, and has a timing device that buzzes an alarm to remind you to take your next dosage.”
I liked the idea of the thing buzzing an alarm, although if you were carrying a cell phone, I could see where you might not know whether to answer your phone or swallow a pill and could accidentally overdose.
“It also comes in five decorator colors,” Helen added. “This particular color is called—”
“Melon!” cried Shirley, as excited as a game show contestant vying for a million dollars. “It’s melon. I know it’s melon because I have one just like it at home. I bought a new one for the trip, though.” She rummaged in her bag and whipped out a container that was the size of a jelly roll pan. “This holds a month’s worth of medications, too. It has the easy opening lids, an alarm, the day printed out, glows in the dark, plus it has two clocks—one for local time and one for the country you’re visiting—a programmable calendar, a pager, and it plays a tune from a different Broadway musical every time you open one of the compartments. It’s the ultra deluxe jumbo model.”
I could tell from the sour looks on their faces that neither Helen nor Lucille appreciated the fact that Shirley’s was bigger. So much for the myth that size doesn’t matter.
“How come you don’t eat with the people you’re traveling with?” Helen asked Shirley in a frosty tone.
“I know all those people. When I travel, I like to meet new people. Half the fun of traveling isn’t what you see, but who you meet.”
“The rest of your group must think you’re a pretty odd duck,” said Dick Rassmuson. “I don’t see none of them trying to follow your example. They all stick together like staves on a picket fence.”
“That’s because they’re from New England. New Englanders never mingle.”
“So what’s your excuse?” he asked.
“I was born in Canada. Canadians are very friendly.”
“Coffee!” yelled Dick Teig, brandishing his cup in the air. “More coffee! I need something to wash these pills down.”
As if on cue, everyone flipped open the lids of their daily pill reminders. From Shirley’s jumbo model came the strains of “Hickory Dickory Dock, The Mouse Ran up the Clock.”
“What Broadway musical is that from?” I asked.
“This one might be off-Broadway.”
While the waiter poured another round of coffee for everyone, I saw the perfect opportunity do some investigative work. I knew Helen would never open up to me about her niece in front of everyone, but this seemed a good time to gauge people’s reaction to the most recent Andy Simon news. “Wally told me yesterday that Louise won’t be flying over here to accompany Andy’s body back to Windsor City because she’s on an Alaskan cruise with another man.”
“Old news,” said Dick Teig. “Bernice told us last night.”
Bernice? How had Bernice found out?
Dick Rassmuson held up a small, round, blue pill in a show-and-tell gesture. “Esidrex,” he said. “Take it for my heart condition.”
No appetite suppressants for him.
Helen looked at Dick’s pill, then held up a yellow one of her own. “Vasotec. Two-point-five milligrams. For my hypertension.”
“Mine’s prettier,” said Lucille, holding up a capsule that was marine blue on one side and sea-green on the other. “Minizide. Five milligrams. My hypertension is worse than yours.” She left out the, “Na, na, na-na, na.”
“Louise Simon was cheating on her husband?” choked out Jane Hanson. “Uff da! She probably won’t appreciate the sympathy card I mailed her. And I had such a hard time finding one in English.”
“Hell, they cheated on each other the whole time they were married,” Dick Teig announced. “It was no big secret. Everyone knew. But he cheated a lot more than she did, and he wasn’t so discreet about it.”
“Louise and I had coffee together sometimes,” Jane said, continuing to look shocked. “She was always trying to convince the pharmacy to donate prizes for her charity raffles. I had no idea she had this other life.” I understood her reaction. It was upsetting to learn you didn’t know a person as well as you thought you did. I’d been that route with my former husband, so I could sympathize.
“Now this is a pill.” Dick Teig showed us a long, elliptical tablet the color of a Vienna sausage. “Dolobid. I get a touch of arthritis every now and again.”
“Voltaren,” said Lucille, flaunting a triangular pill the color of French’s mustard. “I have osteoarthritis in my pinkie.”
“Pravachol,” said Helen. “For high cholesterol.”
“Cotazym,” said Dick Rassmuson, popping a pill that looked like a baby gherkin into his mouth. “My pancreas can flare up every so often.”
I noticed that Jane assumed the look of a hovering mother hen as she watched everyone pop the pills she
’d probably supplied for them.
“Atarax,” said Lucille, flashing a purple pill. “For anxiety.”
She was probably worried the rest of her lips were going to disappear.
Shirley lined up all her pills on the table and pointed to each one in succession. “Dong Quai for hot flashes. Fo-Ti for high cholesterol. Gotu-Kola for poor circulation. They’re not prescription drugs. They’re herbal supplements.”
Jane made a horrible gasping sound beside me.
“I believe in a more holistic approach to health,” Shirley confided, even though to me it sounded more like the Chinese take-out approach to health.
“I take an herbal supplement, too,” Dick Rassmuson offered. He held up the tablet, then looked as if he wished he hadn’t.
“What’s it for?” asked Helen.
“It’s…uh…You know. Men take these pills sometimes when they want to improve their…their stamina.”
“I know what it’s for,” cried Shirley, waving her hand in the air. “It’s called Yohimbe, and it’s for impotence. I know everything there is to know about herbals. But I’m not sure you should be taking a pill to boost sexual performance if you’re on heart medication. Did you check with your doctor?”
The top of Dick’s head turned scarlet. “Well, a man’s gotta perform, because when he doesn’t, there’s no tellin’ who the little woman is going to find to take his place.”
This caused Lucille to grow red-faced. She slammed down the lid of her deluxe daily pill reminder and shoved it back into her canvas bag. “Men think it’s all about sex. Well, it’s not. It’s about having someone make you feel special. It’s about having someone actually talk to you without blowing cigar smoke in your face! Andy Simon may have cheated on his wife, but he knew how to make a woman feel like a woman.”
Unh-oh. Was Lucille admitting she’d had an affair with Andy? Had Dick found out? Oh. My. God. Had Dick Rassmuson killed Andy for sleeping with Lucille? Or were Louise and Helen and Dick all part of the plot?
My twisted triangle was turning into a trapezoid.
Jane Hanson set her cereal spoon down. “We recently received a new video on marital fidelity in the store. It’s in aisle two next to—”
“Oh, shut up,” said Lucille. “Did anyone ever tell you you talk too much?”
I stood up and glanced at my watch. “Oops. Would you look at the time? The bus leaves at nine. Gee, I hope we’re not all late.”
The table emptied in five seconds, and when the other Iowa diners saw the rush for the door, they joined in. Twenty seconds later, Shirley and I and the three early risers from Rhode Island had the whole room to ourselves.
“My watch must be wrong,” said Shirley in some confusion. “I have 7:19. What time do you have?”
“10:13.”
“I think that’s the wrong time, Emily.”
“I know it is.” But could I clear a room or what?
Chapter 7
“In medieval times it was thought the ghost of Pontius Pilate haunted the slopes of Mount Pilatus.” We were gathered around Sonya in the welcome center at the top of the mountain. Outside, sunlight was streaming down onto the scantily clothed bodies of Swiss sunbathers, which meant our travel brochure hadn’t been entirely wrong. There was sun in Switzerland. You just had to climb seven thousand feet to find it.
“Fearing trespassers would so enrage the ghost, he’d send violent storms thundering down into Lucerne, the city fathers forbade all foot traffic up the mountain. The ban wasn’t lifted until centuries later, and in 1868, Queen Victoria proved she wasn’t afraid of ghosts when she made the excursion up the mountain herself.”
You had to admire the queen. Unlike our tour group, she didn’t just slap her money down at the ticket counter and ride a couple of cable cars through the fog and clouds to the top. She made the hike on foot. And in a dress! Come to think of it, that’s probably the way my ex-husband would have done it, too.
“Say, Sonya,” Dick Rassmuson called out. “How much would it set me back to spend a night in that hotel over there?”
All heads turned toward the elegant building that was nestled against the sheer rock face of the mountaintop. It was fronted by a wide terrace beyond which was a drop-off into nothingness.
“You’ve already paid for the hotel in Lucerne, so you’ve no need to know how much this one costs. Any more questions?”
Wally joined Sonya in the middle of the circle we’d formed around her. “We’ll be up here for about four hours, people. There are plenty of trails for you to follow and several restaurants in the Hotel Kulm and one here in the Hotel Bellevue where you can have a leisurely lunch. We’ll meet back here at two o’clock to take the cog railway back down to the bottom. I think you’ll enjoy the ride. The railway has a slope of 48 percent and is the steepest cogwheel railway in the world.”
Nana tugged on the sleeve of my raincoat. “Bernice and me are gonna look for souvenirs, so we’ll catch you later.”
“Small souvenirs!” I called to their retreating backs. “Souvenirs you can pack in your own suitcases!” I walked out into the sunshine and stood for a moment with my face lifted skyward, soaking in the warm rays.
“You really should be wearing sunblock if you’re going to do that,” Shirley Angowski cautioned. “Though the foundation I gave you has an SPF of six, so that’ll be some protection. And where are your sunglasses? Crow’s-feet, Emily. You’ll get them if you spend endless years squinting into the sun.”
I opened one eye to regard Shirley. She’d been nice enough to give me an entire makeover on the nine-mile bus ride to Kriens, so I probably owed it to her to stay out of the sun. I owed it to myself, too. She’d plastered so much makeup on me, if it got too hot, I’d have serious meltdown.
But I looked good. Really good. With a few strokes of the proper pencil and brush, she had given me eyebrows like Catherine Zeta-Jones, lips like Angelina Jolie, and cheekbones like Bo Derek. My eyelids wore a sooty smudge, my mouth a gleaming polish, my cheeks a blushing glow. I was gorgeous. I felt taller, thinner, more confident. I was sporting the kind of face that caused men to stare, or walk into walls, or off cliffs. I eyed the guardrail that was perched at the lip of the hotel terrace and worried it might not be high enough.
Shirley extracted a pair of dark glasses from her Triangle Tour bag and slid them onto my face. “I always carry an extra pair. Maybe the sun will stay out long enough for you to wear them a while.”
Dick Stolee approached, panning his camcorder from right to left. “Top of Mount Pilatus. Hotel on top of Mount Pilatus.” He angled the lens into my face. “Swiss babe wearing a red raincoat on top of Mount Pilatus.” He held the camera in the same position for several seconds before adding, “Correction on the Swiss babe. It’s Emily wearing sunglasses and too much makeup.”
Ordinarily, a comment like that would have ruined the moment, but today, it rolled off me like water off a duck’s back. I figured it had something to do with the altitude.
Shirley, however, took exception. She snatched a small automatic camera out of her bag and aimed it at Dick. “Top of Mount Pilatus.” CLICK. The film advanced. She aimed again. “Rude old geezer wearing a cheap toupee on top of Mount Pilatus.” CLICK.
“Cheap toupee? I paid three thousand dollars for this rug!” Dick bristled. “And who are you calling rude? Hell, I’m being honest. She is wearing too much makeup.”
“Emily’s face is a work of art,” Shirley fired back. “And applying makeup is an art form.”
Shirley was probably wasting her breath talking about art. From my experience with men, it was obvious they knew only two things about art. During their college years, they knew all the bottles in their beer bottle pyramids had to match, and later in life, they knew the wood grain on their big-screen TVs kinda had to match the wood grain on their coffee tables.
Shirley seized my arm. “Come on, Emily. I don’t like the view from here anymore.” She whisked me away, and when we were out of earshot, she said, “That
man is just like my first husband. Criticize, criticize, criticize. As if any man in all creation ever knew the first thing about what kind of makeup best enhances a woman’s features.”
“My ex-husband was pretty good with makeup,” I said, recalling the two short years of my marriage to Jack Potter.
“Was he a makeup artist?”
“He was a gay stage actor.”
“Wow.” I could hear the respect in her voice. “They have a real gift for cosmetology.”
“Yeah. He could apply eyeliner thin as a dime, and in a single stroke. And I won’t even begin to tell you the miracles he could work with lip liner.”
“Is he still acting?”
“He called me last year and said he was installing kitchen countertops and tile for a company in upstate New York.”
“That’s nice you’ve stayed in touch, but what a waste of talent.”
“Not really. I guess he’s dynamite with a caulking gun. And it’s a really big one, too.”
“Well.” Shirley patted the camera bag that hung from her shoulder. “If we only have four hours, I’d better start snapping some pictures. I bought a new five-hundred-millimeter zoom lens, a kaleidoscope attachment, and a fish-eye lens, and I’m dying to try them out. If I can catch the right light, I might even be able to use my sand grain and split-field filters.”